That it was.
He imagined all those who’d died protecting it. Thousands were slaughtered when the Romans sacked Jerusalem. After that, only cleverness had assured that the treasure survived. For two thousand years it had stayed hidden, safe from the world, safe from the Zachariah Simon. It even made it across the Atlantic, on a voyage whose chances of success had been deemed minimal.
Yet here it was.
And his family.
The secret they’d kept for at least two generations, and who knows how many before that.
Now that duty had passed.
To him.
He heard Alle utter a prayer. Had there been a religious bone in his body, he’d have joined her. But all he could think about was the past eight years.
His life. Its ruin.
And what the woman in Prague had said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
BENE TOOK STOCK OF THE TWO WOMEN WHO STOOD ON HIS VERANDA. One was petite, in her early sixties, dark hair streaked with waves of silver. She was dressed in a stylish blouse and skirt, low- heeled pumps, and introduced herself as Stephanie Nelle, head of the Magellan Billet, United States Justice Department.
“Brian Jamison worked for me,” she said. “So let’s not play games with each other. Okay?”
He’d smiled at her forwardness, confident that the rules, which once favored her, had changed completely.
The other woman was taller, stouter, a few years younger, and similarly dressed. She introduced herself as the Israeli ambassador to Austria.
“You’re a long way from home,” he said to her.
“We came to see you,” the ambassador said.
He offered both women drinks, but they refused. He poured himself some fresh-squeezed lemonade, one of his favorites, sweetened with honey from bees kept here on the estate. A fickle March sun tried to break through in patches from rising afternoon clouds. Rain was coming, but not for a few hours. A little over twelve hours had passed since he’d emerged from Darby’s Hole.
“What happened last night?” Nelle asked.
He sipped his lemonade and listened in the distance.
He heard the dogs.
Barking.
He’d opened the pens over an hour ago, his pets grateful for the release. Big Nanny led and he’d watched them disappear into the familiar territory of the high forest.
Their wail was slow and steady.
Businesslike.
As with the Maroon’s
“Last night?” he asked, referring to the question. “I slept well.”
Nelle shook her head. “I told you we didn’t have time for games.”
“Zachariah Simon landed here a little after midnight,” the ambassador said. “He came with one of his employees, a man named Rocha, and Alle Becket. Tom Sagan arrived about an hour before. Two bodies were found at the Kingston airport this morning. Men who, I am told, work for you.”
He’d been troubled to learn of their deaths. He’d told them to be on guard, to expect Simon to be trouble. Unfortunately, the personalities that came into his employ were often too confident and too inexperienced, which sometimes proved a deadly combination. One of the men was married, with children. He’d pay the widow a visit tomorrow and make sure, financially, she’d be okay.
“You have a remarkable amount of information for two people who don’t live here. How does any of it relate to me?”
Trucks headed off in the distance for one of the far pastures, where his prized horses grazed. He’d been told a few days ago that the coffee beans were blooming, and it looked like a good year ahead.
“Quit the act,” Nelle said. “Simon killed Brian Jamison. For all we know, you okayed that.”
“Me? I liked Brian.”
The Justice Department woman never broke a smile. “Yeah, I’m sure you did. But did you think we’d forget about you?”
He said nothing.
“I was there,” Nelle said, “when Brian’s body was fished out of a trash bin. He was a good man. A good agent. Dead, because of you.”
